Birthday Boy
by rimz08
Summary: 2nd try since last time it didn't upload properly. Response to a prompt about d'Artagnan's first birthday after losing his father. Modern day AU


Constance, flour dusting her apron and cheek, is in the middle of licking out the bowl in which she melted chocolate when her phone beeps, informing her that she has a text message.

She wipes her chocolate covered fingers on her apron, before picking up her phone and opening the text. She smiles when she sees it is from Aramis.

"Got any plans tonite?" it reads.

She types back quickly: "A nice warm bubble bath after the lot of you bugger off to the pub. Why? You asking me out?"

Her phone beeps again, seconds later, as she is putting the chocolate soufflés into the fridge.

"U can't fit in the bath anymore! When should we come over?"

"Bastard! Get here for 7ish."

Running a hand over her swelling stomach, Constance goes off to change her clothes. She can't believe how different d'Artagnan's birthday will be this year.

In the office, Aramis shouts out to d'Artagnan to turn off his computer, his missus wants him home. Porthos and Athos grab their coats and throw d'Artagnan's at him, urging him out of the room. Treville stands in the doorway of his office, watching with a bemused smile. "I have a few favors left with the Home Secretary. Try not to use them all up for me tonight boys. And no melons, clear?" he calls after them as they leave. Athos claps d'Artagnan on the back and looks at Treville over his shoulder. "Sir," he replies, "next birthday he'll be changing dirty nappies and being sicked up on, let the kid have some fun!" Treville just shakes his head, glad that those dark days of the year before seem so far away, almost like a bad dream.

1 year earlier

Athos knocks before entering Treville's office from the main room, manila folder in hand.

"The report you asked for sir," he says.

"Thank you," he says, accepting the folder. "You're here late tonight. I would have thought you would have left by now."

"I'm just waiting for Aramis to finish running some facial recognition, then we're getting take away and heading over to d'Artagnan's." Athos tells his boss. "Want to join us sir?"

"Oh, no thank you, I think I am a little old for raucous nights out."

"I don't think it will terribly raucous sir. Take away and whatever is on the BBC. D'Artagnan doesn't even have cable." Athos remarks.

Treville raises an eyebrow at him, as if unbelieving.

"I'm sure d'Artagnan would appreciate you coming sir. He has been a little…well, subdued, of late."

"It's not surprising, under the circumstances," comments Treville. He's seen it enough times before.

"But I would have thought you had something better planned, more in keeping with tradition. I do believe there is even a melon in the fridge. Although I don't recommend giving the lad too much to drink. He is still on some heavy duty painkillers. I also don't have that many favours left to reel in with the Home Secretary," Treville tells him.

"Umm, sir," says Athos, feeling highly confused, "what on earth are you talking about?"

"D'Artagnan's birthday, of course," replies Treville, as though talking to an idiot five year old, "I'm presuming you have one of your usual dos planned for him."

Treville hasn't even finished his sentence before Athos is out of the door, running for his friends.

"Shit, shit, shit!" he calls out, coming up behind Aramis, who is sitting at the desk in his cubicle, watching some very boring CCTV footage and running the facial recognition program.

"What's wrong?" Aramis asks, pausing the program and turning to his friend and colleague.

"D'Artagnan….birthday," he gasps, "today!"

"Shit!" shouts Aramis, grabbing for his mobile phone, "I'm sure Constance has it under control. You get Porthos and I'll call her."

Athos nods and runs off to find Porthos. He's probably by the snack machines, failing that in the armory.

Constance is sewing up a cut on a little girl's leg when her mobile beeps. She finishes the job, says a few kind words to the child and her mother and exits the cubicle, pulling her phone out of her pocket. She hopes it is from d'Artagnan. She hasn't heard from him all day, which is unusual for him, and they didn't speak in the morning, before she left for work. When she had let herself into his basement apartment to leave him some food, he was still asleep, so she hadn't woken him. The night before they hadn't exactly parted on good terms, either. It wasn't exactly a fight, because for it to have been a fight he would have needed to speak in more than monosyllables, but they hadn't parted on good terms.

In reality, now that she thinks about it, they haven't spoken properly in days. She isn't sure that he has been eating the food she leaves for him either. She knows the others have been visiting every day after work with take aways and junk food, spending hours with him watching terrible TV shows. But he seems to be losing weight, not looking after himself, almost not caring.

For the most part she has put it down to his injuries, although now she berates herself for not taking more notice of his psychological state. It can't be easy, being off work for so long, stuck in a basement flat, barely able to move around. He isn't the kind of man to sit around and watch daytime TV.

She knows that Treville has tried to get him to "talk to someone", but that didn't work after the Vadim incident, and she doubts it will work now. He's too stubborn for his own good, she thinks, but thank goodness he is, or he might not have survived.

She had always known the day would come when the paramedics would wheel one of them into the trauma room, but denial has been her best friend for a long time. Patching up small injuries was one thing, and she's done it for all four of them enough times. Having his blood on her hands from the knife to the chest that he took from a terrorist, which sent him flying down a flight of stairs, intubating him, sending him off for surgery to fix his lung and the leg broken in two places was something else entirely. She knows that really, professionally, she shouldn't have done it, should have stepped back and let someone else take over. But she couldn't let anyone else touch him. Until that moment she hadn't been sure what exactly she felt towards him. It had been fun, laughing with him, feeling cherished, feeling beautiful, things she hasn't felt from Jack in years. She has known for a long time that the childhood sweetheart she married has been replaced by a money hungry man who sleeps with his secretaries, but her work had always been enough. Until d'Artagnan came along.

Constance has always prided herself on her ability to detach, to handle herself in difficult situations. That's what makes her a good emergency doctor. It was only afterwards, waiting for the surgeon's report that she broke down, that Aramis rubbed her back, Porthos held her hand, and Athos paced up and down the waiting room like a lion watching over his wounded cub. While she sat by his bed, waiting for him to wake, she knew that she could never let him go. Ever since, she has been waiting to talk to him about the future. She wants to leave Jack, leave behind the fake, superficial life she has led for the past five years. But since d'Artagnan has been home he has withdrawn into himself and she can't seem to bring the subject up, for fear that he might reject her.

Constance shakes these thoughts from her head and opens the message. She is disappointed to see that it isn't from him.

Aramis: "Got any plans tonite?"

She replies, with a sly smile, "After the day I've had, a warm bubble bath. Why? You asking me out on a date? I'm already taken."

"Seriously. No plans?"

"No. ?"

"D's birthday!"

"WTF"

"Uh huh."

Constance rushes over to the desk where the receptionist sits.

"Sally, can I use the computer a sec? I need to look up a patient file,"

"Sure," replies the secretary. Constance punches in d'Artagnan's name and when his file flashes up, sure enough she sees that it is his birthday.

"Thanks," she calls, making her way out of the department, "I'm taking a break. Page me if you need me."

Outside the hospital she calls Aramis. "How did we not know this?" she asks.

"Well hello to you too my dear," he responds, "and I have no idea. He never mentioned it. Athos found out from Treville just now."

Suddenly it dawns on Constance that his withdrawal, his depression, has nothing to do with the attack or his injuries. It will be his first birthday since he lost his father, his last remaining relative.

"Right, here is what is going to happen," she begins, taking charge. "I am getting off in half an hour. You will go straight over there now and keep him busy. Order dinner. Whatever. I will stop at the shops and get a cake. There's no time to make one. Jack's away on business, so I'll do something in our place and you can bring him up when I call. Got it?"

"Sounds a little tame," complains Aramis.

"If you have better ideas feel free to take over. We have about one hour to make a birthday party so what do you say, Mr. Party Planner?"

"Fine, fine," he grudgingly agrees, "but can I bring a melon?"

Athos is texting d'Artagnan from the backseat of the car. As Porthos drives, he complains, "Why didn't he tell us? Stupid kid! It's no wonder he's been so off lately."

"He never has been much of a sharer," comments Athos.

"Look who's talking," quips Aramis, eliciting a death stare from Athos.

"He probably believes we'll think he's being silly or childish. He still doesn't get it does he? What do we have to do to prove it to him that he is one of us?" Aramis continues, shaking his head.

"Maybe when he stops being a trainee and gets full status he'll understand," suggests Porthos.

"No, it goes deeper than that," replies Athos, "he's scared of losing more people he loves."

"You might not say much, but when you do it is invariably correct," remarks Aramis.

"I aim to please," smirks Athos, "he's not answering my texts or picking up his phone. The last I heard from him was at lunchtime when I asked what food we should bring over tonight. He said Constance had already left him dinner and not to bother. I'm getting worried."

"We'll be there in five minutes," Porthos assures him, "I just hope she left enough for all of us, I'm starving."

"Can we stop thinking about your stomach for just a few minutes?" asks Aramis, jabbing him amicably in the arm.

Constance is standing in Tescos, looking at cakes and feeling that they are highly inadequate. She loves to bake and could have made something much better. A boxed up cream monstrosity just doesn't say "I love you" like one of her homemade hot chocolate cakes. She sighs and picks up the least offensive looking one. Beggars can't be choosers, and busy doctors can't always find the time to bake.

Her phone rings at the checkout. "He's not home!" is the first thing she hears, before she even has the chance to say hello.

"What? He's not answering the door? I have a spare key"

"We're already inside. We're not complete idiots," drawls Athos.

Constance mentally smacks her forehead. Yes, I suppose three MI5 agents could manage to get into a basement apartment with one crummy lock, she thinks.

"Shit!" she cries, eliciting a strange look from the teenage girl at the checkout, "he can't have gone far. He isn't mobile enough...".

She leaves the shopping on the checkout, telling the girl she'll be back, and runs out of the shop, talking into her phone all the time, she jumps into her car and starts the ignition before hanging up, having told Athos where to meet her.

D'Artagnan is sitting on the wet grass by his father's grave. It is dark outside, and he is cold, hugging his brown leather jacket around himself closely. He is beginning to think that this was not his brightest idea, since he is finding it impossible to get up again due to the stupid cast on his leg. Part of him wishes that he had talked to the others or to Constance, but he doesn't want them to think he is silly or sentimental. It won't get him far in MI5, crying over his father's grave. His friends and Constance don't want some blubbering idiot. He doesn't know if she wants him at all anymore. They seem to have been drifting apart since the incident. Sure, she's been caring for his physical needs, cooking for him, changing his sheets, driving him to physio, but maybe only out of sympathy. How can she still want him when he's like this? Maybe she is better off with that stupid husband of hers. And as for the three inseparables, the three Musketeers as the rest of the guys refer to them, who have taken him under their wing, he can't imagine them putting up with some whining kid. He isn't really one of them, maybe never will be, but he'll sure as hell never get the chance to know if they see him like this.

D'Artagnan is beginning to regret not bringing his mobile phone along, although he doesn't know who he would have called. Maybe Aramis, he's more sensitive than the others and can keep a secret. Or Porthos, who would pull him up and laugh the whole thing off. Definitely not Athos. He doesn't need the man he respects most in the world to see him like this. He swipes at the tears on his cheeks with a determined hand, trying to pull himself together.

He is startled out of his reverie by a hand on his shoulder. "You, d'Artagnan, are a class A idiot. Are you trying to get yourself back in the hospital with pneumonia?" Constance berates him, taking one of his hands in hers. On his other side he suddenly sees Athos emerge from the darkness, taking his arm, and between them the two pull him up into standing. Once he is upright Constance offers him the crutches he had discarded on the ground.

"Come on, we'll talk about this in the car with the heating on," she orders, seeing his shivers. Her doctor instincts are already in overdrive, a hand on his forehead checking his temperature, as they make their way slowly across the grass to the car park.

Sitting in the back of the car, his leg propped up on the seat next to him, a blanket and Athos' coat thrown over him, d'Artagnan finally stops shivering. The other two sit in the front, looking back at him accusingly. Next time he should really call Porthos or Aramis, he thinks. Instead he has ended up with the two people who he didn't want to see him in this state. He looks down, trying to avoid their gazes.

"D'Artagnan," says Constance quietly, reaching back to stroke his cheek, "I just wish you'd told me, talked to me. I want to help." He looks up at her, shocked to see not anger, or pity, but hurt. "I love you and I want to be there for you, but I can't if you won't let me. Stop shutting me out. Please."

Athos coughs, indicating that he has had enough of the lovey-doveyness. Yet he doesn't look angry or disappointed either. "There's no shame in grief you know."

"Is that it?" asks d'Artagnan.

"He's not a man of many words, our Athos," comments Constance, drily, and d'Artagnan can't help but chuckle.

And all of a sudden, d'Artagnan feels that he is surrounded by family, even though all his family is gone, and that people love him, for who he is and not for what they want him to be.

"Right, come on then, we need to stop at Tescos on the way home. I left all my shopping at the checkout because someone here did a runner," says Constance, putting the car into gear.

Late that night, after waiting in the car while Constance retrieved her shopping, after eating, drinking and some target practice, the others have gone. There are food wrappers and containers on the table, a melon with knife wounds perched on top of the TV, empty bottles on the floor. Constance snuggles up next to d'Artagnan under a blanket on the sofa. "I've decided," she says, quietly, "I'm leaving Jack. That doesn't mean that I expect anything from you, I can be on my own you know, but, well I thought you should know… You might need to find another place to live when we sell the house to divide up our assets and…." D'Artagnan cuts off her blabbering with a long, passionate kiss.

When they finally break apart, she looks at him, smirking. "I'll take it that we should start looking at rentals together then?" she asks, before kissing him again.

"You look stunning," d'Artagnan whispers in Constance's ear, coming up behind her, his arms around her stomach.

"Oy, hands off, those chocolate soufflés need exactly 12 minutes. One minute too much and they'll be ruined!" She pushes him out of her way.

"What, no horrible cream cake this year?" asks d'Artagnan innocently.

"You said you liked it!" she complains.

"I lied, to make the woman I love happy," he shrugs.

"Well, that woman will be happy when she eats her perfect chocolate soufflé. So move it, and take these through to the others," she says, pushing him out of the kitchen.

D'Artagnan hears the others snigger as he brings desert to the table and smiles to himself.

As he sits down, Porthos whispers none too quietly, "Eat up now lad. The sooner we finish, the sooner the real fun begins. And I've got two melons this year. Your knife throwing skills are going to improve vastly after tonight!"


End file.
